


The Iron Throne

by DPPatricks



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 01:01:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17172863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: King Haajensen, recently back from a brutal border incursion battle tries to work up the enthusiasm to meet a new peace ambassador. He's very tired and nearly at the end of his rope.Ambassador Stavish is unaware that his life will change completely once he steps into the throne room.





	The Iron Throne

**Author's Note:**

> This two-part story was part of the 2018 Starsky&Hutch Advent Calendar, posted on Day 3. The entire calendar can be found here: http://starskyhutcharchive.net/advent/2018/index.html?fbclid=IwAR2lCsqD0Kc8RxyC8VogeaMxSSBZVwMcNeg8Jx_3_5_yMSrXTEPB_ibXifA
> 
> I’m indebted to Wightfaerie for coming up with the image, the second-story suggestion, and then for the betas. Many thanks to Flamingo, as well, for her editing genius.

PART ONE

My name is Haajensen, and in this summer of what my gods-worshiping advisors tell me is the last decade of the eighth century - how they know that is beyond me - I am a king. However, the territory over which I rule is small and menaced on all sides. I am alone and very tired after months of fighting off repeated incursions across our borders. With the efforts of my excellent knights and soldiers, I have been able to maintain a tenuous hold on my throne. There is a solid merchant class and loyal peasants under my protection; I have no reason to feel this hopelessness that threatens to overwhelm me. 

Despair is an emotion I must conquer, especially today, since I have granted an audience with a new ambassador.

I dress without conscious thought or assistance. My squire, Axel, is as weary as I am and I won’t have him fussing over what I should wear. The meeting will undoubtedly be of no consequence and a waste of time, as all others have been. I dismissed the boy earlier so that he could take a bath, have his wounds tended properly, and eat a decent meal, possibly the first one he’s had since our return from the battlefield. 

I sit to pull on my best boots, then remain seated, suddenly without the energy to stand. My gauntlets lie across the arm of my chair and I haven’t the strength to don them.

Two days ago, we lost more of our knights and foot soldiers than we can afford and, for the first time since my honored father’s death, I am hearing the wolves howling in the mountains. Their soulless cries haunt my hours of rest. I cannot call it sleep, for I fear to sleep. The expectations of those who look to me for leadership through the maelstrom of requests from our supposed allies - many of whom appear to be our friends but are, I suspect, the opposite - weigh heavily upon me. 

“Did you feel these burdens, Father?” I ask the empty room. It always seemed as if he bore the weight of his crown easily. Of course, he had the counsel and companionship of Lars Knutson, Lord of the Northern Marches. Lars was my father’s closest friend and his equal in all but royal blood. 

We lost them both, standing side by side and holding off the enemy, while my squadron and I ferried the survivors of the village and the battle’s wounded across the river to safety. When the king and Lord Knutson died, I feared I was not prepared to take up my father’s mantle.

I had childhood friends but no close comrade, no one with whom I could share my hopes, my dreams, even my fears. I was a prince and expected to bear up under the pressures of, one day, inheriting the crown. The past year has been lonely with no boon companion to share my concerns, or even my happiness, when I could find any. I longed for someone like Lars. I don’t believe Father ever understood how important his friend was; how dependant they were upon each other. 

“Perhaps I give you less credit than you deserve, though, Father,” I murmur. “It’s possible you did.” 

I hear people scurrying in the hallway but the door remains closed. I’m sure, knowing I needed these few minutes by myself, Axel is keeping everyone away.

“I have done my best, Father,” I tell the listening shadows, “but the year has been dreadful. I am beset on all sides by avaricious petty kings who seem to have broken off their disagreements with each other, in order to focus on our small beleaguered territory. They sent representatives to your funeral, as was fitting, but I only saw political cutthroats conspiring with each other when they thought my back was turned. My knights and I have been staving off one raid after another. I believe our enemies plot with each other in secret and every foray has been a feint to test my resources and resolve.”

I reach over my shoulder and lift the belt of the sheathed sword from the back of my chair before laying the weapon carefully across my knees. “Except this last invasion.” With reverence, I raise the hilt and kiss the brilliant blue gem in the pommel. “I maneuvered the coward who had attacked our farthest village in order to lure you and Lars to your deaths, into a confrontation. I took the Sky Sword he had stolen from your corpse out of his filthy hands and slew him with it.”

The Sky Sword. Grandfather had had it forged from the remains of a fallen star. “I couldn’t rest, Father, until I had recovered it.” 

Slowly, I rise and belt the weapon around my waist. I will unsheathe it for the meeting, as it has a presence all its own and has been known to cause prevaricators to speak the truth, sometimes without their intent. 

“Why, though? Why must I meet with yet another envoy, ambassador, whatever he calls himself? Have I not shown admirable patience this past twelve-month, Father? Have I not demonstrated commendable restraint in allowing all these false emissaries - well, most of them - to live? They lie with silver tongues and expect me to give up everything we have struggled to gain, so their lords and masters can lay claim to this land.”

I begin to pace the confines of the room. “Oh, each of them says those they represent want only the best for our country and all who live here. They pledge that they will assist us against our foes and give aid to our old, our sick, and wounded. They offer succor in our time of need.” 

My energy fails and I sit again. “And the only thing they would require in return is my fealty, and the sworn allegiance of my subjects, to those they represent.”

I lower my head into my hands, unhappy with myself for my weakness, even as I’m unable to fight it off. I am hounded on all sides and am afraid to close my eyes. I don’t believe I have ever felt quite so alone.

Realizing I am delaying the inevitable, I rise again and leave my chamber. A servant disappears into a doorway, leaving the hall empty before me.

As I approach my private entrance to the throne room, the guards come to attention. They appear as worn and spiritless as I am and I straighten my shoulders. I don’t wish them to think I have lost hope. Responding to my more rigid posture, they stand straighter as well. I meet each of their looks and do my best to smile. It is probably wan but they seem to draw strength from it. 

One of them opens the door for me and I pass through. They do not follow; their duty is to guard that passageway behind my back.

The Iron Throne is truly an intimidating object. For generations it has stood here, its grizzly assemblage of captured swords a testament to the lives it has cost to secure our small kingdom. Now rival despots are gathering and I am afraid I won’t be able to hold what my ancestors have entrusted into my keeping. 

“Great Thor,” I breathe, thankful that no one is close enough to hear, “send me a champion, for, in truth, my people and I are in dire need.” 

I pull on my gloves and unsheathe the Sky Sword, discovering that simply holding the hilt gives my arm renewed vigor. Hearing, in my head, the fable of the weapon’s birth, I silently offer the gratitude my ancestor deserves. _Thank you, Grandfather_.

I sit on the thinly padded seat and, touching the sword’s tip to the wood square laid flush with the slate-clad floor, I nod to my chamberlain. He opens the double doors, pushing them wide and into the hands of waiting guards as he turns to face me.

“The peace ambassador, diplomat, and warrior, Stavish,” he intones, before taking a step to his right and clearing the way for this new emissary to enter. Echoes of the unusual name bounce off the unadorned walls.

Stavish. Is that Polish? I wonder. I have no idea and I wrench my inquiring stare from the chamberlain to this man who, when he requested an audience, stated that he wished to be of service. 

As soon as my eyes meet his, I know Thor has answered my prayer.

The newcomer is tall, within an inch or two of my own height. He wears no head covering and his dark hair curls lavishly around his well-shaped head and cascades nearly to his broad shoulders. His tunic clearly isn’t new but is made of excellent material and will probably serve him for numerous years yet. The color is a deep indigo that matches his eyes. 

And those amazing eyes are fastened upon my own. Within the space of a single breath, my heart is light and almost free of tension and fear. I know that, somehow, this man will be our salvation. More, he will be my Lars.

I keep my tone as calm and normal as possible. “Approach.” 

I don’t blink as he crosses to me and he doesn’t either. I have never seen eyes that intense shade of blue and, instinctively, know I will never tire of looking in them. 

“Majesty.” His voice is like honey over my raw nerves. 

Even as be begins to kneel, I catch his right arm with my left hand. “Never.” I suppose the word could have been misinterpreted but I know he heard my complete thought: _Do not ever kneel to me. You are my friend, not my vassal_. 

Although I don’t break eye contact with Stavish, I’m aware that those who have crowded into the room are surprised. I cannot remember my father voluntarily giving up his right to have a subject kneel, but I will not begin my relationship with this man that way. Let them make of it what they will. 

I stand and although I don’t raise my voice, and speak only to him, the silence in the hall lets me know that every word is heard. “I should have felt your coming, but I did not.” I sense it as he absorbs my unspoken thoughts. “Nevertheless, and I say this with all my heart, you are welcome, Ambassador Stavish.”

He and I get through the remainder of my official greeting and I’m sure I say the correct and proper words because everyone in the hall, and those within hearing outside, begin to cheer.

With my arm around his shoulders we walk through the crowd and out onto the landing at the top of the stairs. We converse quietly, unheard by anyone but ourselves, in a way that makes me feel as if we have known each other forever. And, although I am not a religious man, something tells me that, even though he and I are meeting for the first time, our souls have found each other in countless previous lives. However, that is for debate among priests and philosophers. All I know is that I am no longer alone.

 

PART TWO

My name is Stavish. I am an ambassador of peace and a diplomat. I am also a warrior. Fluent in a dozen languages, I am able to converse in several others. I am attached to no specific land and no leader has ever been able to convince me to stay, once I feel my mission has been accomplished. 

I learned everything I know at my father’s right hand and now, with his passing, I wander. Where I find strife, I attempt to mediate a settlement. When I find war, I study the politics of both sides, choose one, and lend my considerable talents to winning.

I had no inkling that my life was about to change when I mounted the steps and entered the hall for my first audience with King Haajensen. This is a small country surrounded and beset on all sides by imperial threats and martial forces. My investigation into the circumstances had determined that the royal I was about to meet is the most upstanding and trustworthy of the squabbling lot, and his goals admirable. As such, I decided I would do my best to help him prevail against his enemies, before moving on.

“The peace ambassador, diplomat, and warrior, Stavish,” the chamberlain announces, and I enter the throne room. Wardens step back, holding the doors open. I sense the space behind me becoming crowded but no one stands between me and the seated king. The crown he wears is not as ostentatious as some I’ve seen and its simplicity suits his outwardly calm, controlled demeanor.

There is no sound except the breathing of our silent witnesses.

I have served kings, emperors, and potentates. I have arranged peace accords between feuding warlords and supposedly implacable clan chieftains. I have associated with the best and worst rulers throughout the known world and, therefore, I thought I was immune to power. However, it seems I am not, since I am intrigued by, and drawn to the personage across the room.

Haajensen sits on his iron throne but it’s not the innumerable swords making up his intimidating chair that entrance me. It’s not even the weapon, clenched in his leather-clad hands, the point resting upon a square of wood laid into the floor.

I had heard tales of the Sky Sword and fully admit they were part of the reason why I chose to come to this land. Reputedly cast from a fallen star, its edges and tip are supposedly impervious to damage. It is also said the sword can only be taken from its rightful owner by treachery. It was that which had been employed when the former king was betrayed and slain, and the sword stolen.

This son, this man who sits before me, had avenged his father’s death during the act of recovery. It is clear that the blade - longer than that which a man of normal height could wield, and gleaming as no sword wrought from earthly metal could match - is well suited to this monarch and might reveal its awesome power in battle for him, alone. 

I pause, suddenly incapable of moving forward. Haajensen appears weary beyond bearing and I’m sorry, for an instant, that I requested this meeting today. My sources informed me he only recently returned from a border dispute but I had not realized how desperate the encounter must have been.

As if sensing my hesitancy, his gaze, focused on the steward slightly to my right, snaps to mine, unblinking, and I am captured.

His eyes, which are the color of the sky on the brightest of days, clear of their weariness, and the fire I suspect is usually present in them, blazes. I have looked in the eyes of the most important leaders of this world and not been moved or impressed. For some reason though, the intensity in this minor monarch’s gaze has pierced my heart and lodged in my soul. 

“Approach.” 

The word is said softly and, instinctively, I know this is the voice I will listen to for the rest of my life. 

My eyes never leaving his, I cross the distance between us. “Majesty.” I begin to bend a knee.

With his gauntleted left hand, he grips my right arm. “Never.” 

Even through layers of fabric and leather, his touch electrifies me. Had I not been gazing into the other half of my soul, I might have taken offense at the stern command, but my mind understands his true meaning and I answer with my own thought: _I hear, and rejoice_. 

Indrawn breaths and foot-shuffling shift my attention, while my eyes remain fastened upon his. Has this king not previously waved the normally required gesture? Perhaps not, and I immediately vow never to dishonor the gift he has given me.

He stands, tightening his fingers on my bicep. “I should have felt your coming, but I did not.” His earnest stare warms a part of me I hadn’t realized had been cold. “Nevertheless, and I say this with all my heart, you are welcome, Ambassador Stavish.”

He turns me to face the throng of guards, knights, and civilians who are standing three- and four-deep against the walls. Casually, although I know it is not a casual move at all, he drapes his right arm, the hand still holding the hilt of his magnificent sword, over my right shoulder. His left hand grasps the blade and, using it flat against my chest, pulls me back against him.

Gasps are audible and more feet shuffle but the faces show only relief and joy.

“You have heard this warrior’s name and know that he and I are not related.” Haajensen’s voice rings clearly for all to hear. “But I tell you this, he is my brother.” He draws me even closer. “I believe we have both waited for this moment all our lives.” He releases me and turns me to face him again. “Is that not so?”

My eyes re-lock with his and I bow my head slightly. “It is, Sire.”

And, for the first time, his beautiful face lights up. My heart, which was already in his keeping, shatters into a million pieces, over which the honey of his radiant smile flows. Although it normally beats quietly, it now drums in time with the pulse I feel through his glove. Every ache, injury, and wound I’ve ever taken is instantly healed. I am whole. 

He sheathes the majestic blade, puts an arm around my shoulders, and turns me again to face his subjects. We stand side by side, almost of a height, and I can sense the stresses leaving his body. 

“Together,” he says, his tone making it clear that he will allow no dissent, “this man and I will forge a deep and lasting peace like none our besieged land has ever known.”

Cheering erupts and builds as we march through the throng and out onto the landing at the head of the broad staircase I had walked up only minutes before. 

“I prayed to Thor.” His words are, perhaps, unheard by anyone else.

“My lord?” I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly.

“I don’t often. Pray, that is.” His slight smile is self-deprecating and any resistance I still retained against my utter capitulation to his will, is swept away. “But, I did,” he murmurs, “and here you are.”

I nudge him lightly with my elbow and laugh very softly. I certainly didn’t want to presume on our new friendship but I wished to further lighten his burden, if possible. “I’m no god’s emissary, Sire.”

He smiles and I am happy, for I have evidently not offended him. 

“I know. But I’m more grateful than I can say that you are here. For whatever reason. And here I hope you will remain.”

“For as long as we both live, Your Majesty.”

He tightens the arm around my shoulders. “As I ask you never to bend the knee to me, I also ask that you not use such words. I believe we are equals and I mean to have you at my side, as just that, from now on. I have no power to make you royal but it’s my sincere hope that you will be my trusted friend, partner, and companion, as Lars Knutson was to my father.”

“If I am not to use your title, King Haajensen, how shall I address you?”

“Do you doubt that we will think of something, Ambassador Stavish?”

“Since the moment I entered your throne room, I doubt nothing.”

“Good!” Under cover of the continuing joyous noise, he leans against me. “We must get you a sword.”

I shake my head. “Unnecessary. I already have several.” I glance down to his left side. “Nothing as grand as yours, of course.”

He laughs again and his left hand falls lightly to the hilt. “There is no other like the Sky Sword in the known world.”

“So I’ve heard.” I shrug. “I may even have made my way here simply to find out if the legendary tales are true.”

Standing at the top of the steps, he surveys the still-cheering throng but, instead of the haughty look I would expect from any other leader, this king is contemplative. “Some of them, perhaps. I’ll tell you about it when we have time.”

“I look forward to it.” Then I shrug again. “I make do with mine though, simple and utilitarian as they are. My squire has them in his keeping, along with my horse, at the inn.”

“Excellent! For, although it is peace we seek, we cannot overlook the probability of having to fight for it.”

“This is true.” My life of wandering is ended. I’ve come home to this man and his iron throne.

 

END


End file.
